


The Curse of the Cranky Cocksucker

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Blow Jobs, Crack, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 14:10:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14450940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: Feeling neglected, Arthur lays down an inadvertent gauntlet - and Merlin can't resist rising to the challenge. In which the ensuing snark and banter lead to probably the most bizarre blow job that Arthur's ever had.





	The Curse of the Cranky Cocksucker

**Author's Note:**

> With enormous thanks to Fifty Fifty for the lightning fast beta!

“Stop lollygagging!” Arthur is a patient man, known throughout the five kingdoms as such. But there are limits. And Merlin seems to find them. Repeatedly. Like now, for example. “Get on with it! It’s already two candlemarks past midnight. Come to bed and suck my cock. Immediately.”

“ _Oh, hello Merlin, nice to see you Merlin, how did your long and extremely tiring day go, Merlin?_ ” grumbles Merlin in a sarcastic falsetto, and all the gods damn it! The lumbering idiot is still huffing and yawning and fumbling with the fastenings on his jacket instead of dealing with Arthur’s more urgent problem as he should.  “Dealing with manticore nests is no fun, I’ll have you know. While you’ve been waving your… your…” Yawning widely, he waves a dismissive hand in Arthur’s direction. “Your over-entitled _sword_ around all day, I’ve been away vanquishing magical foes, you presumptuous plop-head.”

“Uppity peasant! Over-entitled?” As Arthur gropes around in mock anger for something to throw, his throbbing cock grows if anything even harder, because there’s nothing like a good argument with Merlin to make him feel like spending the night shagging across every conceivable surface of his chambers, just to wipe that insolent smirk off Merlin’s beloved face. “ _Plop_ -head? How dar—”

“Anyway, Mr Ploppy!” interrupts Merlin, glaring over at the bed. “I don’t see why _you’re_ in such a mood. You’ve been in bed for hours. Whereas I still have manticore venom on my hands.” He stomps to the basin where he proceeds to slop water everywhere.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, _Mer_ lin,” growls Arthur, with half an eye on the way that Merlin’s vigorous hand-washing makes his pert little bottom jiggle. “My cock hasn’t been sucked for days. I’m beginning to worry that it might drop off if you don’t sort it out soon.”

“Don’t be so obscene.” Merlin dries his hands on a towel and starts to fiddle with his boots.

“That’s not obscene,” says Arthur, waggling his eyebrows in what he hopes is an alluring manner. “The only thing that’s _obscene_ around here is the amount of time it’s taking you to fart around with your footwear instead of doing your duty and wrapping that insubordinate mouth of yours around the royal cock.”

“Oh very good, very droll.” At last, Merlin’s boots are slung across the room. He shrugs off his tunic and crosses the room to the bed, his bare feet making slap-slapping noises on the floorboard. He sighs as he sinks down onto the mattress, tugging the counterpane around his bony shoulders. “Ahhh! Bed!”

“Excuse me?” Arthur waggles his hips, making his interested cock bob up and down on his belly, in a way sure to allure and entice. “Aren’t you forgetting something, you colossal tease?”  

“No idea what you’re talking about,” says Merlin, sleepily. He buries his head in the pillow with a contented sigh. “Ah, pillow! Dear pillow! How I love you! How I have missed you this past three days! That bloody nest of manticores... honestly, how is it possible for one creature to lay that many eggs? And who even knew that they lay eggs anyway...”

Normally, Arthur prides himself on being methodical in planning and executing a campaign. Meticulous, even. But sometimes—times when he is under extreme duress—and this is one of those times—Arthur’s instinct for self-preservation eludes him and he hurls himself into battle without a thought for the consequences.

But Merlin has to take some of the blame, too. Because it isn’t as if Merlin can have missed Arthur’s abundant clues. Clues like the nakedness of his king, for example. And the clear invitation offered by the perkiness of Arthur’s cock—which by now, with proximity to all that lean, semi-naked flesh, is waving around excitedly. Like one of those poles that Arthur’s flagbearers like to strut about with. As if that isn’t enough of a clue by itself, gods damn it all to hell, there is the small matter of Arthur’s earlier, clearly enunciated order. Besides which, Arthur’s nude form sprawls across the top of the counterpane, artfully displaying the royal body. Arthur’s a modest man, but in the past he has found that this vision is usually enough to tempt Merlin into gratifying mouth-on-cock action.

But no, not today. Instead, Merlin has chosen to flop around on Arthur’s bed like some sort of exhausted fish, moaning about the annoyingness of manticores, and his overwhelming weariness, or some such flimsy excuse for not sucking Arthur’s cock. All in all, it’s enough to try the most patient of kings. So, while Arthur, who is still a patient man no matter what Merlin might say to the contrary, lets Merlin blather on for several seconds...

“...give birth to live young, because their bodies are mammalian, but Gaius says…”

...he quickly reaches the end of his considerable tether.

Later, Arthur will pinpoint this as the exact moment when he makes his fatal mistake. It is an easy one to make, in the circumstances. But probably he should have known better than to issue magical challenges, however inadvertently, to a tired and cranky sorcerer, albeit one with excellent skills with lips and tongue. By which Arthur isn’t referring to Merlin’s penchant for witty quips and sarcastic come-backs, although in weaker moments Arthur will allow that Merlin is surprisingly good at those, too.

“Come _on,_ Merlin,” Arthur cries, beyond frustrated. “My cock won’t suck _itself_ , you know.”

And later, he’ll write this down among his already long and growing Top Secret List of Things Not To Say to Powerful Sorcerers When They’re In A Mood.

As well as being patient and modest, King Arthur Pendragon is also an intelligent man. As kings go, he can discern and anticipate with the best of them. Thus, he discerns Merlin’s weariness, and anticipates snarkiness, rude noises, hand gestures and disgruntlement in response to his demands. What he fails to anticipate, however, is a sudden sly quirk of one eyebrow.

“Oh yeah?” With a provocative twist of his lips, Merlin lets his eyes drift south towards Arthur’s cock for a moment, and then back along the length of Arthur’s waiting body. “We’ll see about that, shall we, _sire_?”

Nor does Arthur expect the way that Merlin, instead of giving in and fixing those perplexingly plush lips upon his eager flesh, mutters something under his breath in a strange language, eyes flashing that unearthly shade of gold that heralds powerful magic.

“Merlin?” Arthur’s about to complain about Merlin’s cavalier dismissal of the royal appendage, but a panoply of faint yet entirely agreeable sensations are already beginning to develop in its vicinity, so he gasps instead.

“You asked for it, prat.” Merlin turns his back, revealing a long line of bones, and starts to snuffle sleepily into his pillow. “G’night!”

“Merlin? What have you— Oh...ohhhh!” Arthur lets out a shaky breath, unable to finish articulating the thought because of the sudden sweet, no _heavenly_ warmth that engulfs his balls and moves up to nudge at his cock, making it twitch, hot and heavy upon his naked stomach.   

There’s a gentle snore from Merlin by his side. Later, Arthur will berate him about falling asleep on the job. But for now, he can’t really grumble at Merlin, not even for denying him his favourite sight, which is that of Merlin’s eyes gazing adoringly up at Arthur, while his mouth works with a skill and diligence that Arthur is not accustomed to from his former manservant in any other context, and which he would never in a million years mention out loud.

And all right, so he also misses the feeling of Merlin’s thick, unruly hair between his fingers as he works on Arthur’s cock, the submissive way his head dips as he slides ever lower towards the crease at the top of Arthur’s thighs, and the salt-slick taste of his favourite bit of Merlin’s skin, just at that soft fold where neck meets collarbone. And maybe, just maybe, he craves the way that Merlin’s voice cracks and his eyes cloud with lust when he moans Arthur’s name.

But later, later Merlin will gift him those things that he loves but can never ask for, and for now, no, he can’t grumble, not while an invisible mouth is closing around the head of his tortured cock, applying just the right amount of suction, and drifting with tantalising slowness lower down the shaft.

He'd never known that magic could feel like this.

With a grateful groan, Arthur lies down and watches with fascination, letting his legs drift apart as his cock gets carefully sucked, licked, coddled and gentled. There’s an exquisite, sweet tension developing across his gut and in his thighs, pulling at his balls. The invisible mouth slackens and he groans, heart racing, hovering at the peak of a precipice, waiting to fall.

“Please,” he whispers.

A tendril of magic whispers over the tip of his cock and he comes in sweet, thick pulses all over his stomach.

Such is the magnitude of his release that it takes a while for him to recover. But eventually he returns to himself and realises that while the fire has burned down low and the room is becoming cold, he can’t bury himself in the warm cocoon of his bed just yet, because a disgusting sticky mess is congealing on his stomach. He grimaces. Moreover, his companion’s snores have settled into the sort of slow and even tempo that means he’s unlikely to be in a position to serve his king any time soon.

Sighing, Arthur bows to the inevitable. He slips off the bed and damn well washes his own stomach, grumbling all the while, but under his breath, so as not to wake Merlin. And then, but only then, he is able to slot himself in behind his lover—stomach to back, bent knees locked together—press his nose to his second favourite place—where the sharp tip of Merlin’s shoulder blade creates a warm, soft fold, lined with tiny hairs that tickle Arthur’s nose—and yawn with great contentment.

“Worst cocksucker ever,” whispers Arthur fondly, letting his arm snake out around Merlin’s side.

“Entitled prat.” The snoring stops for a moment, and Merlin’s bony arm tightens as he clutches Arthur’s forearm to his chest.

 

*END*


End file.
